The entire universe, in orbit. Planets circling stars, stars circling the centres of their galexies, spinning in a beautiful dance, tracing patterns that, if you just left your camera exposing for a little too long, would be a breathtaking combination of smooth curves and spirals, twisting and weaving in a perfectly predictable but incredably complex dance.

I remember the lie-to-children of orbits. That you could throw a stone, and it would fall to earth, and if you kept throwing further and faster eventually the curve of the earth would receed faster than the fall of the stone. Forever accelerating towards a ground it would never reach.

And I wonder, if I could hear the stars, if they would scream out the terror of falling, as they hurtle towards a doom they dread. And I wonder, if you stepped back from my life, whether my catostrophic curve and fear of failure is really as magnificent and patterned as the dance of the stars.

Perhaps the music of the spheres indeed comes from their harmonic screams. And by stepping back one might see your curve as complex as the stars, as both more and less fearful people arc their way in the world around you, gravitating as willed. Some scream and some rejoice in their rarely predictable path, never able to stop but never able to crash. Thus the music of the people goes on forever, perpetually guiding their dance.

[and it's not a lie to children if you ignore air resistance and throw horizontally at such height that there's no buildings or mountains in the way]